


All to Catch a Thief

by Marks



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fairy Tales, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marks/pseuds/Marks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon's life is comatose until someone breaks into every house in town except his. A fairy tale about criminals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All to Catch a Thief

**Author's Note:**

> AU fic written for the LJ comm drawn_to, and inspired by the day Ryan Ross dressed up like a robber and boarded a plane, plus heartequals' requests for snow, bright colors, shenanigans, and no porn. I hope you like your gift! :D

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a sleepy town. Actually, Brendon feared that Somersville was more like a comatose town, a winter's long hibernation that stretched on and on as the days grew shorter and the temperature dropped. Maybe he wouldn't have minded it quite so much if he actually got to sleep through it all, but when he still had chores and work and other things that numbed his brain and spirit, it all seemed incredibly unfair.

His mother was often telling him that he found too many things unfair, but most days it was difficult to muster up any gratitude. Brendon was the only one of his brothers and sisters still living at home and, because of this, he felt pushed toward the family business and pushed into finding a life partner as his siblings before him had. He resented this deeply; he wasn't particularly interested in following in his blacksmith's father's steps and, as for the other, he'd never managed anything more than an awkward fumble with another person, let alone anything hinting at permanence. It was entirely possible that his mother was right and Brendon was selfish; however, it was equally possible that life was meant to be lived and he hadn't yet had that chance.

Unfair, he thought, shoving the front door open with his hip so he wouldn't drop the armful of purchases from his morning trip to market.

"Brendon," his mother sighed as he stomped inside. She did that often when Brendon entered a room, and as a result he often found himself sighing back. "Knock the snow from your boots outside. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Until it penetrates my thick skull?" he suggested, flashing her a winning smile. The nice thing about being both the youngest and gifted with a rather nice smile was that he got himself out of an awful lot of trouble no matter how much of a disappointment he was. This time was no different, his mother shaking her head and bustling over to him to lighten the burden from his arms.

The rest of the day was typical in all regards, like it always was. Brendon helped his mother around the house in the morning, he took lunch, he assisted his father's apprentice Gabriel in the afternoon, he managed a scant half-hour at Mr. Stumph's music shop before the sun began to dip below the horizon and he had to hurry home for supper, and he went to bed, after reading the letter his friend Spencer had sent from university, filled with adventures Brendon wasn't having. His own life was so dull by comparison.

A sliver of moonlight shone through the window next to Brendon's bed, and though it really wasn't much light at all, he felt restless enough that it kept him awake well past a reasonable hour. It figured that he couldn't even escape monotony through dreams.

"Go _down_ , moon," Brendon pleaded, sitting up in bed and peering outside.

A shadowy figure suddenly ran by his window, the iced-over snow crunching underneath its feet. Brendon sucked in a breath and scrambled back, then immediately cursed himself for his overreaction. Probably it was nothing. Just an animal -- a deer or something like it. On two legs. Brendon cautiously leaned forward to look out the window again and found eyes that weren't his own blinking back at him.

"Shit," said the mouth attached to the face that owned the eyes.

Oh. Not a deer then. The... man, Brendon supposed, was very thin and dressed head to toe in black. He donned a mask that obscured the upper half of his face, but his mouth was still visible and so was his hair, untamed and too long for any respectable gentleman. The man bolted away before Brendon could prevent him from doing so.

"Hey," Brendon squeaked out, then cleared his throat and tried again. " _Hey_ ," he said finding his voice, but it was too late. The man had disappeared into the night.

Brendon clutched the front of his nightshirt and willed his heart to slow as he settled down in his bed again. He kept darting glances toward his window but the moon was the only disturbance that remained. And yet sleep was still a long time coming.

+

The next morning started out as sleepily as any other. Brendon took breakfast with his parents and they seemed well-rested and pleasant as always, his mother reminding him that he had promised to clean out their storage cellar to make room for the winter's goods. He felt rather grumpy himself, having dreamed of mysterious strangers climbing through his bedroom window, which made for a rather restless sleep even after he'd finally managed to drop off, but his parents were both used to his brand of early morning crankiness and they wrote him off cheerfully.

After breakfast, Brendon accompanied his father into town, as he did most mornings so he could shop for his mother, and there he found that the sleepy calmness he'd come to associate with Somersville's daily life thrown into an uproar. Unfortunately, his father was already at the blacksmith's by the time Brendon made this discovery, leaving him rather unprotected to face the market's chaos.

Greta Salpeter, a pretty girl with blonde hair halfway down her back, was the first one to hurry up to him. Brendon had known her most of their lives and he'd never thought of her as much of a morning person, but today her eyes were bright with excitement and she seemed nearly _happy_ , despite the fact that the first words our of her mouth were, "Oh, Brendon, it's just _terrible_ , isn't it?"

"What is?" Brendon asked, feeling bizarrely out of sorts for someone doing the same thing that he did every single day. There were men and women chattering excitedly all around him. One woman was sobbing theatrically into a handkerchief, her two sons running around her in circles.

"The _robberies_ ," Greta said, her tone plainly indicating that she thought that Brendon was stupid.

"Robberies?" Brendon repeated, dumbfounded.

"Of course! What else could I possibly mean? Every house in town had something taken."

Brendon shook his head. "We didn't. Our house is as it always is."

Greta eyed him, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you quite sure? In my opinion, most of the things taken were almost worthless, but still they were taken. The thief left every home a note!"

Brendon shook his head again. "Greta, I assure you, there were no notes to be found at my house this morning. It's not as though my parents' house has a great many rooms."

"No, I suppose not," Greta agreed. "The letters were all sealed in scarlet envelopes and placed rather conspicuously. I spotted ours first thing."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Brendon said, the image of a slight figure dressed head-to-toe in black rising unbidden in his mind's eye. He had just begun to convince himself that he'd dreamed the whole thing up, but apparently that wasn't the case. What kind of thief could rob so many homes, yet get frightened off by one person peering out their bedroom window? It was preposterous.

"Oh, don't be sorry," Greta laughed. "My family was luckier than most. The doorframe was a bit splintered, but that needed repair anyway, and the only thing taken was the hat my late Uncle Horace used to wear when he went yodeling in the mountains. Trust me, that hat is no great loss and I rather think the note we got in return yields a higher value."

Brendon raised an eyebrow. A thief scared off by strangers, who left notes and stole ugly hats. Curiouser and curiouser. "Miss Greta, if you'll excuse me," Brendon said, bowing a little. "This is all very exciting, but my mother will be expecting me soon."

"Oh, my apologies, Brendon, of course. It is, though, isn't it?" asked Greta, her eyes bright and the color high on her cheeks. She even reached out and gripped Brendon's bicep briefly, something that Brendon couldn't remember her doing in all the years he'd known her. "Exciting?"

Brendon nodded, despite himself. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

He dutifully trudged home, enduring several more accounts from his neighbors about the trinkets stolen from their homes and the elaborately written letters accompanying them along the way. By the time Brendon returned to his mother's side, he was feeling a bit dazed. All right, a lot dazed. His mother seemed skeptical when he recounted what he'd heard at the market, but it was too tall a tale for Brendon to have made up on his own and she eventually accepted that. Any lingering doubts she might have had were erased when Mrs. Walker, their nearest neighbor, came calling just before lunch. She was chattering as quickly and excitedly as Greta had earlier, and had even brought along the note she'd received.

The thief had taken guitar strings belonging to her youngest son, Jon, and that was nearly as ridiculous as stealing Greta's dead uncle's hat. Jon didn't even live at home anymore, having moved two towns over last spring after his wedding. Anything of his left in the Walkers' home must have been old and most likely used, since Jon was sensible enough to have taken perfectly good guitar strings along with him when he moved out. Brendon had known Jon for a very long time and felt sure of that.

"May I see?" Brendon asked tentatively, reaching out for Mrs. Walker's red envelope.

"Of course," Mrs. Walker said, giving it to him. Brendon's fingers curled around the edges and he clutched it tightly, like he was afraid it would flutter away if he loosened his grip. "It's just so very fortunate that your house was passed over," Mrs. Walker continued, watching Brendon's mother set a third place for lunch. "Do you have any idea why that could be?"

Brendon's mother shook her head. "Just luck, I suppose. Or," she said, wrapping one arm around Brendon's waist and smiling up, "the thief knew about my brave, strong son and decided not to chance it."

"Yes, that must have been it," Brendon deadpanned, picturing the robber's face again. He was possibly the only person in town who could successfully identify the man who had done this; it wasn't as though his disguise had been that thorough. Brendon imagined himself pulling off the robber's mask and revealing his true face in front of the entire town. He could be a hero.

Why was it that he found that thought so unsettling?

Brendon ate more quickly than usual, not wanting to endure the conversation between his mother and Mrs. Walker any longer than necessary. The topic kept drifting to Jon's new home, how Cassie was expecting, how their house practically doubled as an animal shelter, what with the strays Jon kept taking in. Brendon was familiar with the pointed looks his mother kept throwing his way, and as much as Brendon didn't hate the idea of a family of his own in an abstract way, the prodding was annoying and the scarlet-colored envelope burning a hole in his pocket felt like a more pressing issue.

He was lucky that he had the excuse of cleaning the storage cellar already, and he rushed away as soon as he politely could, giving Mrs. Walker a warm good-bye along with a promise to return her note as soon as possible.

"Keep it," she said airily, waving her hand. "From what the Wentzes told me, the police don't need any more evidence, and all I lost were a few strings that weren't even mine to begin with."

The gift made Brendon's heart leap into his throat, pathetic, _ridiculous_ behavior, simply inexplicable. If he weren't so eager to read, he might have chastened himself further, but as it was he found himself practically running out of the house.

The storage cellar was much as he'd last left it, cramped and stuffy and dimly lit. Brendon closed the door behind him and sighed happily to himself, despite the lack of amenities. He couldn't quite explain it, but he wanted privacy for this.

The envelope itself was a very bright crimson, no fade on the dye at all, and standing out in stark contrast with the gray of the cellar. The seal on the back was red, too, but darker, a brick shade, and of course broken from the Walkers' intervention. Brendon pressed the flap down and tried to make out the intact seal, thinking the wax must have been damaged irreparably because it defied explanation otherwise. He thought he saw a feather and a heart, not typical, though also not too strange, but they were accompanied by a circus clown broken at the waist, the lower half riding a unicycle. The clown was too ridiculous to consider and Brendon figured he was just seeing things.

Brendon removed the letter and examined that, too -- fine parchment covered with spiky script, not messy but large. Brendon himself was in the habit of smearing ink everywhere, making his handwriting quite illegible, and he wanted to know the robber's secrets.

After too long staring, Brendon finally read:

_To the owners of this home,_

_I'm quite sorry if I inconvenienced you at all with this. You see, I have a use for your guitar strings and they seemed to be gathering dust in a corner of an empty room. If they were meant to act as your household's dust collectors, please let it be known and I'll return them at once. Again, I meant no intrusion into your privacy, aside from the obvious._

_Yours,  
Nature's Ringleader_

"Odd," Brendon said to himself, rubbing his thumb over the note's signature. Mrs. Walker might not have ever noticed the strings missing if the robber hadn't pointed them out. "He seems like a rather stupid thief, leaving evidence at every scene."

Brendon thought he heard someone exhale at that, a breath of air that resembled the huff of annoyance his mother often directed at him, but he was alone in the cellar, so it must have been the shelves settling or the wind blowing outside. He shook his head and carefully folded the note again, closing it up inside the envelope and returning it to his pocket. Brendon knew it would most likely be crushed in there, but he couldn't risk losing it somewhere. Strange that he still felt that way, he thought, considering Mrs. Walker had instructed him to keep the note and he already knew its contents. Still, he didn't want to rid himself of it quite yet.

He set about clearing the shelves, taking down jars of preserves from the winter previous, and removing the thick layer of dust that covered most everything. Brendon moved backward as he labored, starting near the door and steadily working his way toward the back wall. He salvaged several jars that would still be good this year, dragging a cloth over their lids and making a great cloud of dust go up. He sneezed hard, the sound echoing a moment later, surprising him. Echoes weren't normally achievable inside such a small space.

Then the cellar sneezed again and Brendon's eyes went wide. No storage unit was clever enough to have developed an allergy to dust.

"A- _choo_ ," said the cellar miserably. Startled, Brendon looked up at the tallest shelves, the ones that neither he nor his mother could easily reach, the very same that were normally left empty and certainly never occupied by _people_.

Brendon gave a dignified yell, stumbled back and tripped over the jars littering the floor, landing on his backside.

"Are you all right down there?" the sneezer called once the dust had settled. He had his hands wrapped around the edge of the shelf now, and he was peering down at Brendon, who could do nothing other than nod in reply. "All right then," the sneezer said, sniffling a bit. "Give me a moment and I'll be right there."

Brendon watched, fascinated, as the stranger shimmied down the shelves without disturbing so much as a single dust mote. When he crouched at Brendon's side, Brendon recognized him at once. "Hey! You're... the robber, the person leaving notes from Nature's Ringleader." He tried to suppress a giggle, not knowing if the thief was armed or dangerous, but he couldn't help it. It was all too unbelievable and the name only put it over the top.

The thief glared. He seemed even less threatening without his domino mask than he had scampering away from Brendon's window the night before, which was no small feat. "Is something funny?" he asked, narrowing his wide eyes.

Brendon shook his head. "Nothing," he said and bit down on his lower lip, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"You're lying!" the thief said accusingly, rising to his feet again and offering Brendon a hand up.

"Actually, I'm Brendon," he corrected once he was standing and the thief smiled despite himself.

"You don't have to call me Nature's Ringleader," he said, narrowing his eyes when Brendon chuckled again, "even though that's a perfectly good name for a calling card. My name is Ryan."

"Ryan," Brendon repeated, glad to be able to think of the dastardly criminal as something other than 'the thief' or 'the robber' or 'the man who'd invaded my dreams the night before.' All of those were rather awkward, given the circumstances. "Okay, Ryan," he agreed, "what are you doing in my parents' storage cellar? Biding your time till nightfall so you can steal from the place you missed? Because it seems that last night you managed to visit everyone I've ever met other than me."

Ryan smiled crookedly. It was a rather roguish and attractive look for him, which was also very annoying. "I visited you."

"My apologies," Brendon said with a little bow. "Perhaps I spoke too rashly. You managed to rob everyone I knew in one night, except for my family. So what is this?" he asked. "Because if you want to break into our home, you should just forget it."

"I already broke into your home," Ryan pointed out, looking around. "Unless you don't own this cellar and then that makes you as much of a trespasser here as me."

Brendon drew his eyebrows together because sure enough Ryan had a point. "It's our cellar," he admitted. "So what are you planning on taking from us? I have to warn you that these preserves are from last winter. If you'd only waited a week or two, you could have had your choice from a fresh supply."

"That's good to know," Ryan said. "Maybe I'll make another stop here next week."

"It seems like a stupid idea to return to a place you've already canvassed just for some jarred preserves. Do you usually make a habit of that, or are you just new to the thieving game?"

Ryan looked all around. "No, normally I'm smart enough not to steal from the same town twice. However, there are always exceptions to everything." As he said this, he fixed a stare on Brendon's face. Brendon had to admit he wasn't quite sure how to react to that and was rather displeased by his body's decision to take matters into its own hands, causing a fierce blush to heat Brendon's cheeks. "And you haven't yet received a calling card." Ryan lunged forward and plucked the scarlet envelope from Brendon's pocket, ignoring Brendon's attempt to take it back.

"That's mine," Brendon said feebly, even though they both knew that the envelope was more Ryan's than Brendon's.

"You can have it back," Ryan said. "Or I can write you your own."

Brendon shook his head. "If it's all the same, I'd rather you not rob me tonight or ever."

Ryan looked him up and down. "Well, if you're quite sure."

Brendon wondered why he was letting himself feel so scandalized, especially since he was the one holding all the cards here. He certainly had several options worth pursuing: he could lock Ryan in the cellar and notify the police that he'd caught the thief, or he could wait until his father returned home and tell him that he'd trapped an intruder in their storage cellar. Instead, he felt himself helplessly locked under Ryan's gaze, again doing nothing as Ryan stepped in and returned the scarlet envelope to Brendon's pocket.

"Would you like to see something?" Ryan asked suddenly. "If you can climb up, I mean."

Brendon rolled his eyes. "Of course I can climb up," he said. "You'd think I hadn't lived here my entire life the way you're acting."

"I didn't know you'd lived here your entire life until right this moment," Ryan said. "That's useful information, thank you."

Ryan smiled again and Brendon noticed that it was a very nice smile, if not completely genuine. It was almost as though he was painfully self-conscious and trying to put his best foot forward to impress some unseen entity. Or perhaps he was trying to impress _Brendon_ , as absurd as that idea was. Ryan leaped onto the bottom shelf and climbed back up, rolling neatly into his top-shelf hiding place again. Brendon followed, not quite as nimbly, but then again Brendon hadn't made a career out of sneaking in and out of places. He still felt victorious when he rolled in next to Ryan without knocking over so much as a single jar.

"Hello," Ryan said, the smile no longer stretched across his features, though amusement still lingered in his voice. Brendon hadn't thought this through quite thoroughly enough and had rolled in right after Ryan, which meant they were sharing the same small strip of shelf. Ryan's leg and arm were pressed right up against Brendon's, which was rather too much human contact for Brendon's liking. 'Your liking or your comfort?' a little voice inside his head asked and Brendon scrambled away before he could pay that voice any mind. The fact that Brendon only managed to hit his head once as he moved -- making Ryan laugh -- was still better than letting his conscience engage him in a battle of wills while he was practically lying atop another man.

"Welcome to... well, to your shelf, I suppose," Ryan said, once he stopped laughing and Brendon had settled a comfortable distance away. Ryan gestured, showing what was now stored on the shelf aside from them and Brendon had to admit it was a rather impressive, if hodgepodge, collection. He could see an emptied black sack in one corner and a stack of red envelopes next to parchment, quills, and an inkwell. Along with those, Brendon spotted Greta's uncle's hat with its impressive feather, a collapsible music stand with STUMPH printed on it, a purple cravat he recognized as Pete Wentz's, and several other shiny things that would appeal to any magpie worth its salt. All in all, Brendon was rather impressed with Ryan's haul. However...

"It's a mess," Brendon told him. "Things are everywhere! How on earth did you think you were going to escape with all of this if you were discovered?"

Ryan looked offended. "I've never been discovered."

"Well, you have _now_ ," Brendon pointed out. Feeling brave, he reached out and prodded Ryan's shoulder. "For a professional, I think you're a rather poor one if you can be twice caught by someone with no interest in law enforcement whatsoever."

Ryan mulled this over, tapping his lips with a very long index finger. Brendon tried not to watch as his thoughts grew surprisingly indecent for such an innocent act. "But you're not going to capture me, right? Turn me in?"

"No," Brendon said. "I already told you that I have no interest in law enforcement"

"Even though I broke into the homes of your friends and neighbors?"

"Even so," Brendon agreed. "It's not as though you've stolen anything of value."

Ryan looked genuinely offended at that, glancing all around at his loot and then back at Brendon. "You really think this valueless?"

Brendon shrugged. "I'm sure you think yourself a master criminal, but you haven't made off with all the gold in the town or fine jewelry or anything more than a bunch of junk. To be honest, the people I've spoken with today seemed much more interested in the letters that you'd left them than the things that they lost. Few of them even seemed concerned that their houses had been violated -- speaking of, for such an inept thief, how did you manage to slip in and out so many times over without being detected?"

"I'm not _inept_ ," Ryan protested. "I'll have you know that I was a proper apprentice to an older band of thieves for nearly a year. We stole all of the things you mentioned -- money, fine china, jewelry. I was the point man for many great heists, or if necessary, was used to slip in and out of tight spots. I was very, very good at what I did." Ryan's shoulders sagged a bit. "But there was something a bit empty about it all. I found the break-ins themselves exhilarating, but the robberies themselves left me feeling rather hollow. Something was missing; it was all so impersonal and I suppose my definition of value differs somewhat from the common one."

"So you broke away from your band?"

Ryan shot him a sidelong glance and smiled that crooked smile again. "It was rather more dramatic than that, but yes. I broke away from them, and now I only take what I need to live or anything that interests me and doesn't seem to be getting much use." He sifted through the things he'd taken and plucked Greta's uncle's hat from the pile. "Take this, for example," he said, twirling it on his finger and making the feather sway gently. "It was gathering dust on top of a cabinet that stored a set of fine goblets. They could have been melted down and fetched a pretty penny." Ryan reached over and placed the hat on top of Brendon's head. "But now it looks better on you than it did on that cabinet, and you could never wear a goblet for a hat. I've given it a second life. I like giving old things a second chance, even though it won't make me a rich man."

Brendon reached up and touched the brim of the hat, running his fingers up the feather and catching Ryan's gaze. He mulled over what Ryan was telling him and wondered why he wasn't more bothered by Ryan's words. It wasn't as though Brendon considered himself a particularly moral person, but still he'd also never considered thievery as a way of life. But if Brendon let himself, he couldn't help finding it a bit romantic -- a life of adventure and uncertainty.

Ryan allowed Brendon to go through his things and looked pleased that anyone seemed as interested in the things that Ryan had taken as Ryan himself was. A long time passed, just the two of them talking on the cramped shelf, and before Brendon realized it, night had fallen. His parents would be expecting him for supper.

"I'm sorry," Brendon said. "My family will worry if I'm not home soon, and then they'll come looking for me, which won't turn out very well for you."

Ryan nodded. "It's all right, Brendon. I should probably be on my way anyway. There are other towns to explore and staying here for another night wouldn't be wise. Though," he said regretfully, "you did interrupt my sleep, so I'm not quite as well-rested as I'd hoped."

Brendon immediately felt awful and he had to admit to himself it wasn't just because he'd interrupted Ryan's sleep. "Are you sure you have to leave? If you waited a bit, I'm sure I could sneak you some of our leftovers. My mother always makes too much; I think she's still compensating for my missing brothers and sisters. My father and I simply can't eat all that she prepares."

As if on cue, Ryan's stomach growled, at odds with the way he was frantically shaking his head. "Don't worry about me, Brendon," he said. "I've got plenty of dusty jams here and, if I feel up to it, maybe a jar of pickles, if I feel up to it. I've certainly had worse accommodations than these. And if I start out at nightfall, I can cover lots of ground by morning."

"Don't be stupid," Brendon said. "I'm offering you a proper meal, which will help you cover even more ground, even if you get a later start."

"I'm a thief, not a beggar. I'm a bad guy -- that means I don't stay for supper," Ryan complained, but it was halfhearted and he shut his mouth suddenly when Brendon reached over and pressed his hand to Ryan's chest. Brendon didn't even know what he was doing, but the last thing he wanted was Ryan to leave just yet. He could feel Ryan's heart beating quickly, and felt certain that his was meeting it beat for beat.

"Stay," he insisted, only pulling his hand away once Ryan agreed.

+

Brendon emerged from the storage cellar a few moments later, a little dustier and a lot jumpier than he preferred. He winced involuntarily, thinking about what his parents would say about him getting absolutely nothing done that day, but he hurried back to the house anyway, making sure to keep the bright smile on his face when he walked through the door.

"You're late," his mother said, raising one eyebrow at him. Brendon smiled faded just a bit. "Well, set the table," she continued. "Your father wants to eat."

Brendon set the table perfectly, as professional a job as he could manage, putting out a whole stack of linen napkins.

"It's my prodigal son," his father said, coming up and clapping Brendon on the back, before taking his spot at the table. "Is there any reason you didn't come by the shop like you usually do?"

"Just cleaning the cellar," Brendon mumbled, serving himself almost twice as much food as he'd normally eat. "I lost track of time." That much, at least, was true.

"Well, I wish you hadn't," his father sighed. "You left me alone with Gabriel all afternoon. Such a wastrel layabout; he's only lucky that I have such a long association with his father, or I wouldn't put up with the way he carries on. Today it was the Salpeter girl, yesterday it was the Beckett boy. I suppose only the day of the week decides what he wants." Brendon tried nodding in all the right places, agreeing that yes, Gabe was very lazy and yes, he was an incurable flirt and not a particularly natural blacksmith (then again, neither was Brendon), but he was too busy wrapping chicken and potatoes in napkins and trying to drop them out of sight. He had to admit he really hadn't thought through his 'feed the criminal hiding out on the property' plan quite as much as he probably should have.

"I'll be by tomorrow, as usual," he assured his father. His mother smiled indulgently.

"So that storage cellar must be the cleanest that it's ever been," she laughed. "You were gone for hours. Can I see my own reflection in the shelves?" Brendon bit his lip, thinking that the only thing in the storage cellar that could reflect his mother would be the cracked makeup compact that Ryan had stolen from the McCoys.

"About that," Brendon said, already pushing out his lower lip in an apologetic pout. "I didn't exactly finish. But," he added hastily, "I plan to be up with the sun tomorrow and finishing the job. Forgive me?"

His mother sighed. "Did you fall asleep down there? I knew you must have; there was no way you would have been gone so long otherwise."

"Hmm?" Brendon said, rolling green beans into a napkin and jiggling his leg anxiously. Ryan probably wouldn't wait for him for very long before he decided to just leave. The thought pained Brendon. "I mean, yes. I fell asleep because I couldn't breathe properly. What else could there have possibly been?"

"I knew it," said his mother. "It's so dusty and stuffy down there."

"Yes, very, very stuffy and warm," Brendon agreed fervently. His father clucked his tongue.

"Come on, Brendon. We expect more of you than that. Do you want to end up like Gabriel, paying more mind to your next roll in the hay than to your future prospects? Of course not," his father answered for him. Brendon wanted to say aloud that there were worse fates and Gabriel seemed pretty happy and secure in himself, but he just shook his head.

Brendon excused himself from the table as soon as possible, making a hasty retreat to his room and escaping out the window when he felt sure that neither of his parents were going to follow after him, clutching three napkins filled with food as he climbed out into the snow.

+

Brendon returned to the cellar as quickly as possible, slowly shoving open the door. He heard shuffling noises and called out softly, "It's just me."

When Brendon poked his head around the door, Ryan was frozen in the middle of the floor, still looking terrified. Brendon wondered if Ryan thought he might have changed his mind or, worse, decided to turn him in.

"I come bearing food," Brendon said, holding out the napkins like a chicken-filled white flag. "And I brought this," he said, holding up the half-drunk bottle of wine he'd pinched from dinner. Ryan's shoulders sagged and he exhaled with relief. "Did you think I was going to change my mind?" Brendon asked.

"Stranger things have happened," Ryan said.

The sat down on the floor, Ryan eating and the two of them passing the bottle back and forth. Brendon didn't drink much, except whenever Gabe and William coaxed him out, or if Spencer was home for holidays or Jon was visiting his family, but he generally liked the taste of wine and this was especially good. Also, Ryan's cheeks got redder and redder as they drank, and that was rather nice.

"The food is good," Ryan mumbled around a mouthful of bread and potatoes. "A man could get used to treatment like this."

"I'll extend your compliments to my mother," Brendon said, holding the bottle up before taking a swig. "She'll be pleased."

Ryan laughed. "You'll do no such thing."

Brendon raised one eyebrow. "You'll never know."

"No," Ryan agreed, "I suppose I won't." Brendon again tried not to be too disappointed upon the reminder of Ryan's imminent departure, and instead touched the back of Ryan's wrist.

"Tell me how you got mixed up with a band of thieves in the first place," he said, feeling brave.

Ryan poked his tongue out, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth. "Haven't I talked enough about myself? What if I want you to tell me all about yourself?"

"There's nothing to tell," Brendon said. "I've lived in this house my whole life. I'm the youngest and the last one of my parents' children to still live at home. I'll probably be a blacksmith like my father. I'm completely uninteresting."

"Completely unsatisfied, is more like it," Ryan said.

Brendon shook his head. "I'm content enough," he said.

"Is that really enough?"

Ryan managed to catch Brendon's eye again and held it until Brendon could no longer bear to look, and he dropped his gaze to the dirt floor. He felt Ryan's fingers slip underneath his chin, lifting it. Brendon swallowed hard.

"My mother ran off before I was old enough to even know her name," Ryan said, "and my father died when I was seven."

"That's awful," Brendon said. Ryan dropped his hand and pushed the wine bottle back at Brendon, who took another drink.

"I made the most of it. Of course, I was placed into an orphanage, since I had no other family, but I was too old for any other family to take me. There were older children there -- teenagers -- and they taught me petty things. How to lift a wallet without detection or how to liberate a necklace from a lady's throat. I was a quick learner and so small that no one ever suspected me." He wiggled his fingers. "I was a natural. Things only went from there: from pickpocketing to small break-ins to larger ones. When the older kids were turned out, freed from being wards of the state, I ran away with them. It wasn't like anyone was about to come after me."

"How long ago was that?" Brendon asked. He went to take another drink of wine, but found the bottle quite empty. He turned it all the way over and frowned sadly.

"Six years ago?" Ryan answered after a moment's thought. "Seven? But still, here I am."

"Yes, you are here," Brendon said, smiling a bit goofily. His head felt a bit fuzzy now and he'd gone pleasantly warm all over, from the wine or Ryan he wasn't sure. Most likely both. Ryan smiled back indulgently.

They stayed in the cellar awhile more, talking until Brendon was slumping toward Ryan and struggling to keep his eyes open, more than once crying out, "I'm awake, I'm awake," when Ryan prodded him in the arm or leg.

"You're no more awake than you are tall," Ryan said, amusement lacing his voice. He rolled the Uries' linen napkins into a ball and stood, helping Brendon to his feet.

"Did you just call me short?" Brendon asked, leaning heavily against Ryan when Ryan tugged him in and wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'm not short."

"No," Ryan agreed, "but you're shorter than me."

Brendon raised his head in a glare, which brought them nearly nose-to-nose, even with Brendon stooped over. "Not by much," he said, proving it by touching his own nose than Ryan's. "So there."

"Off to bed with you!" Ryan said with a shake of his head. "Come on, let's go, you have to lead me to your room quietly."

"You're the master thief," Brendon said, putting one foot ahead of the other to climb the cellar steps. He didn't remember there being so many before. "You saw my room yesterday. Find it yourself."

"I should just leave you out here in the snow," Ryan muttered.

"You'll do no such thing." Brendon felt very sure about this, especially when Ryan gave an indignant 'hmph' but kept leading Brendon back toward the house. Brendon shushed Ryan exaggeratedly when they reached the kitchen. "My parents are asleep and you're not meant to be here."

"I _know_ ," Ryan said crossly. "Keep moving, Brendon."

Even in his inebriated state, Brendon could still tell that Ryan moved more quietly than the average person. He stepped lightly and didn't seem to make the floorboards creak, even when Brendon did and Brendon knew all the floor's squeaky spots. Ryan guessed Brendon's bedroom correctly on the first try, not that it was all too hard to guess. His family's house only had three bedrooms -- one for his parents, one for the girls, and one for the boys. Brendon hadn't even known about privacy until he was the only one left.

"Now you get to see it from the other side," Brendon giggled as Ryan firmly shut the door behind him.

"It's nice," Ryan said, nudging Brendon back toward the bed. Brendon flopped down on his back, his head perpendicular to the wall and spread his arms out.

"My feet are still on the floor," he complained.

"Shut up and let me help you with your shoes," Ryan said, his voice coming from lower down than it had before. Brendon felt Ryan's fingers brush against his ankles as he undid the laces on Brendon's boots. It felt very nice to have his feet free again and he wiggled his toes to celebrate their newfound liberation. "Up you go," Ryan said. He nudged Brendon's knees, and Brendon shifted until his legs were properly on his bed. Brendon sighed happily.

"S'nice," he said. "Thank you, Ryan."

Ryan stood up again and brushed off his pants with his hands. "You're welcome," he said. "Thank you for such an entertaining stay. Now, if you'll allow me, I have to be going on my way."

Brendon's hand shot out and he grabbed Ryan's arm before he could leave. "No," he said, frowning. He rolled onto his back and pouted, knowing full well the kind of results he normally got when he did so. "Don't go."

"Brendon, I can't stay," Ryan said, but he didn't pull his arm from Brendon's grip. Instead he sat down on the very edge of the bed and stared out, refusing to meet Brendon's eyes. "I was already meant to go."

"You're being ridiculous," Brendon said, feeling a little more sober than he had before. "You've already told me that I interrupted your sleep and the least I can do is make that up to you. Come on; when was the last time you slept in a proper bed?"

"A long time," Ryan admitted.

Brendon tugged impatiently on Ryan's arm, until Ryan was settled down next to him. "Take off your shoes then," he said.

There was one thump, then two as Ryan's boots joined Brendon's on the floor. He was very warm and Brendon snuggled into him at once.

"Sleep," Brendon ordered and closed his eyes, feeling the day slip away before the word even passed his lips.

+

Brendon awoke early the next morning, feeling like something had crawled into his throat and died during the night. The awful taste in his mouth was suddenly forgotten when he realized where he was, namely in his own bed, but pressed chest-to-back with a criminal, his leg thrown carelessly over Ryan's hip with all that implied. To his credit, Brendon didn't cry out or scramble away quickly enough to shove Ryan off the edge of the bed, but his heart thudded anxiously in his chest as he tried to move his leg and press himself against the wall without Ryan taking notice.

"I'm awake," Ryan said, just as Brendon slowly rolled away. "You can stop doing your finest impression of a glacier now."

"You might have mentioned that earlier," Brendon complained.

"Yes, I might've," agreed Ryan. Brendon could hear the laughter in his voice and didn't appreciate it. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

The events of the previous evening came back as soon as Ryan spoke, ending in the two of them falling asleep fully clothed except for their shoes. Brendon pretended that he wasn't disappointed by that.

"No, I remember that I asked you to stay," Brendon said. "Now we only have to figure out how to get you past my parents."

Ryan rolled onto his other side, bringing his face rather close to Brendon's and pointed at Brendon's window. "I go out that way, reclaim my possessions from your cellar, and go on my merry way. Problem solved."

"Nonsense," Brendon scoffed. "You're my guest and should be given the opportunity to wash up and eat properly like anyone else. I just have to work out how to introduce you because I have a feeling 'Hello, this is my bed friend, the criminal' won't go over very well."

"Really, Brendon, this is ridiculous. I don't have to...," Ryan began, falling silent again when Brendon narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "Fine," he sighed. "Do you have any friends who might visit that your parents don't already know?"

"No," Brendon said regretfully. "I've told you; my life is rather insular and I've never --" He stopped suddenly as his eyes landed on the letter from Spencer still sitting on his night table. "Oh! But my friend is away at school. You could be one of his chums. His name is Spencer and any friend of his would be a friend of my parents."

Ryan's eyes brightened immediately at the prospect of deception, which possibly should have scared Brendon, but only caused a shiver of excitement to run down his spine. A smile spread across his face before he could stop it.

"All right," Brendon said, still grinning. "Now that that's decided, we have to do something about your outfit. Burglars stand out in the daylight."

+

While he washed up, Brendon let Ryan go through his things and borrow some clothes. What he picked out was nothing Brendon would have ever thought to pair together, a patterned shirt paired with a jacket he'd long since shoved to the back of his wardrobe. Brendon's trousers fit Ryan well enough, though, as long as one ignored the extra inch of ankle he was displaying. It made a funny sort of sense that Ryan would dress this way; usually he was trying to stay unseen and unnoticed, so when he no longer needed to be he took advantage of the situation. Either that or Brendon was making excuses and Ryan was just strange.

"Dapper," Brendon deadpanned and Ryan bowed.

They went out to breakfast, and Brendon thought he caught a concerned expression cross Ryan's face, but it disappeared as soon as his parents came into view. They quickly ran through their cover story -- Ryan was a school friend of Spencer Smith's and he'd arrived into town much later than he'd planned, so late that Brendon hadn't wanted to wake anyone else and, yes, Ryan had been quite comfortable in Brendon's room, thank you for asking. Ryan even made up a story about some minor antics he and Spencer had got up to at school, and had Brendon not known they'd never met, he would have absolutely taken Ryan for someone Spencer knew intimately.

His mother set about getting Ryan comfortable right away, and Brendon could tell the hospitality they both offered was genuine. He wondered how his parents would react if they knew they were cozying up to a thief. Brendon stared across the table at Ryan eating and felt a dopey smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

Ryan smiled brightly in return. "So that's all right with you?" he prompted.

Brendon blinked. "Is what all right with me?"

Mr. Urie reached over and ruffled Brendon's hair affectionately. "That's our Brendon," he said. "Always somewhere else. Your friend wanted to know if it was all right if he accompanied you into town today."

"But I was supposed to clean out the storage cellar," Brendon said.

"You were meant to do that yesterday and Ryan shouldn't have to help with your chores," Mrs. Urie admonished. "That can wait for when your friend leaves."

Brendon had figured he would just wait out the day with Ryan until he had a chance to escape at nightfall, but Ryan looked excited at the prospect of hiding in plain sight and Brendon had already learned that Ryan's thought processes weren't predictable.

"I wouldn't want to be a poor host," Brendon said, pleased when it earned him another smile.

+

Brendon had already worked out that Ryan was charismatic in his weird, monotone way, but he hadn't expected Ryan to get on with every person Brendon knew. They went into his father's shop first, and though Ryan seemed uninterested in the inner workings of a blacksmith's, he and Gabriel got along right away. If Ryan were staying longer or William Beckett hadn't strolled in ten minutes after Gabe got to work, Brendon felt sure that Gabe would have made Ryan his seduction target of the day, and Brendon could no longer ignore the flare of jealousy that accompanied that thought.

Ryan, for his part, seemed more interested in Gabe's purple shoes than Gabe himself, for which Brendon was grateful. He also charmed Bill and that was normally no easy task, but after a mock-argument where William told Ryan that he wasn't permitted to steal Gabriel _or_ Brendon, and Ryan replied that there was no challenge in stealing people, at least not for him, they got on like they were separated from birth.

Then when they headed to market, Ryan informed Tom Conrad that his button-down sweater was highly fashionable, making Tom's expression change from 'bewildered' to 'bewildered and pleased,' Brendon had half-decided Ryan was a figment of his own imagination.

But Ryan wasn't made up. He was real, and he kept companionably bumping his shoulder to Brendon's, or letting the backs of their hands brush together, and he kept looking over at Brendon, catching Brendon looking back every time. It was ridiculous and maddening.

+

After an entire day of Ryan shadowing Brendon, something that made the day speed by at least three times as quickly, and another meal where Ryan charmed himself into the Uries' good graces, they retired to Brendon's room. This time there was no excuse of wine or a lack of sleep to keep Ryan with him again, unless he counted the bedding Brendon's mother had pointedly set up on the floor, and he expected Ryan to shimmy out the window at his first chance.

That didn't happen, though. Instead, Ryan laughed at the spare bed and sat down on it, patting a spot next to him on the floor, as though Brendon didn't have a bed of his own to occupy. Of course, he sat down next to Ryan anyway.

"Your parents are good people," Ryan said, and Brendon nodded. They were and this was a nice town and if someone had been wandering for years and needed somewhere to settle down, this was a place where it could be done. He didn't let himself hope, though. Especially not when Ryan added, "Your life is boring."

"It is no such thing," Brendon protested. "My life is perfectly respectable and _normal_ and --"

"And monotonous and predictable and not at all what you want your life to be."

"You're one to talk about monotonous," Brendon mumbled under his breath. He looked down at the blanket his mother had put out for Ryan, an old quilt that he could remember his sisters piecing together for years as they grew up and out. Everything about his life had history, and yes, maybe it was predictable and maybe he did complain sometimes, but that still didn't give Ryan any right to say what he was saying. They'd only known each other for two days, hardly long enough to pass judgment.

"Brendon, hey," Ryan said, scooting closer, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to offend you, honestly." Brendon looked up and found Ryan looking back again. "You're right; your life is respectable and I wouldn't say anything if I didn't think you were unhappy. There's nothing wrong with living quietly, but some people's lives are meant to be loud." Ryan covered Brendon's hand with his own. "You're loud, Brendon."

In that moment, the only thing that seemed loud to Brendon was the thump of his own heart and the blood rushing in his ears. He found himself leaning in without thought, perhaps following Ryan's lead or maybe Ryan was following his, and their lips touched lightly, almost chaste. Brendon couldn't remember ever wanting like this, but what Ryan was asking he couldn't give and it felt unfair to let him hope. Brendon was hoping too much as it was.

"We should sleep," Brendon said, pulling away. "If you're staying the night, I mean."

"I can't stay here forever," Ryan said. "That's not who I am."

Brendon nodded, his head filled with all the things he could ask for in one night, but it felt too greedy to ask. "I hope the next town is pleasant for you," he said pathetically.

"Come with me. You should see for yourself," Ryan said. "I've never worked with a partner as an equal. It's always just been me as a lackey or me alone. Since you found me hiding out I've sensed something special in you, and I think it could be nice. I think it could _work_." He sounded so convinced of it; Brendon wished he could be so convinced.

"Ryan," Brendon said as gently as possible, squeezing Ryan's hand, "it wouldn't work. I'm no criminal."

Ryan sighed. "Fine," he said shortly. "I give up."

"Let's just sleep," Brendon said. After a moment's hesitation, Ryan nodded. Brendon extinguished the lamps in his room and didn't bother getting into his own bed, just curled up behind Ryan as he had the night before. Ryan didn't say anything, but tightly laced his fingers with Brendon's shortly before they fell asleep.

+

Brendon woke up still on the floor, but he was alone and the spot next to him was already cold. Regret immediately set in, the reality of never seeing Ryan again as certain as a punch to the gut. It felt _awful_ , and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet and pulling on his boots, rushing through his house past his bewildered parents and out the door and into the snow, ignoring their questions about where Ryan was.

The storage cellar was exactly as it had been when he'd last been there, and when he clambered up the shelves, he half-expected to see Ryan's head peering over the edge. The top shelf was empty, though; all traces of Ryan were gone.

All traces, that was, other than a scarlet envelope bearing his name.

_Dear Brendon,_

_Though I fear this comes from desperation, I thought I would extend to you one more offer. Meet me on the edge of town after sunset, and we'll seek our fortune (meager as it may be) together._

_Pack lightly. We can always steal what we need._

_Yours,  
Nature's Ringleader_

Brendon swallowed hard, knowing that he had all day to weigh his options. He'd likely never see his family again, or if he did it would be under very strange circumstances. He knew he would have to leave the relative comfort of his life and live hand-to-mouth. He knew he wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to and that he didn't know Ryan very well at all. He knew that whatever else happened he'd be with Ryan.

He also knew his mind had been made up as soon as he spotted his letter.

+

Brendon left a note for his parents because he couldn't not. Hopefully, they would find it in their hearts to forgive him once the shock passed. After dinner, Brendon retired to his room and slipped out his bedroom window, not turning around once.

Ryan was pacing anxiously on the edge of a clearing when Brendon found him, snow crunching underfoot just as it had when he first rushed by Brendon's window. Brendon took a moment just to watch, proud that he was able to sneak up on Ryan without notice. When Ryan finally spotted him, he exhaled hard, and Brendon couldn't help grinning happily at him.

"I have a spare mask for you," Ryan said, not resisting when Brendon wrapped his arms around Ryan's shoulders and tugged him in close for a kiss.

And they lived notoriously ever after.


End file.
